


The Psychology of Infatuation

by argus



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Longing, M/M, Obsession, One Shot, One-Sided Relationship, Regret, Science, Science Bros, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, gammafrost - Freeform, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 03:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argus/pseuds/argus
Summary: Bruce falls head first for Loki.He would resign himself only late at night, alone.  When his mind was no longer his own and in no danger of becoming the Other's.  In dreams, the ideas festered.  A smile.  Sharp teeth.  A sidelong glance.  That haughty chin, raised, throat exposed.  Daring him to violence.  Daring him to touch.





	1. Chapter 1

No one would characterize Doctor Bruce Banner as impulsive. Or prone to flights of fancy. Or of a frivolous or capricious heart.  
Perhaps, more than a decade ago, he had been an excitable creature, weak only to the thrill of scientific discovery and soft brown hair. But he had spent years on the run since then, each hard-earned lesson tempering his capacity for hope into hardened steel.

Thus, it was completely unacceptable that a sidelong glance from a smirking menace should have his knees turning to water and his stomach doing backflips.

He lost himself in those eyes. That piercing albeit brief stare. In that animal feeling, so long forgotten, so long repressed, stuffed in a crate in the back of his mind in his mid-twenties and padlocked, encased in cement, buried fathoms deep.

Oh, it was electric. It set his blood on fire and his heart racing.

But before he forgot himself, he closed his eyes, counted to ten, and forced the green menace back down.

 

***

 

 _Infatuation_ (noun)  
1\. the state of being infatuated.  
2\. completely lost in the emotion of unreasoning desire.

 

***

 

Like some half forgotten dream, he came to in a post-transformation haze, remembering the impression of slight ankles grasped by his massive hands. The virtue of meting out justice was compromised by the idea that he'd utterly ruined any chance of seeing that self-righteous smirk again. He rubbed his face in his human hands and sighed with resignation when Stark suggested Middle Eastern food.

Sleep didn't come easily for him that night. But it never did in the wake of the Other Guy. His unease was compounded by the battle. By how close they'd come to utter destruction. To turning New York into a nuclear holocaust. To total subjugation by an alien enemy. Oh, but he wanted to learn more about that alien enemy. Not just where he was from, or what suns rained down on his home planet, or the composition of the atmosphere, or their version of science/magic, but what exactly made a man like him tick, what had corrupted him so, what drove him to such reckless ambition. What the full weight of his gaze really felt like. The angle the corners of his lips twitched in order to form that demonic smile. How smooth was his skin...

He wrenched himself back from that train of thought. It was pointless. And dangerous. He couldn't afford to let musings of that bent fester and build. It was utterly impossible to deviate that juggernaut once unleashed, so he instead crushed it down without mercy.

No, he told himself, it was simple scientific curiosity that drove him to Tony's lab to cobble together a small transmitter, connect it to a commonplace lithium metal battery, and encase it in a smooth aluminum casing. It was simply the quest for knowledge.

When the demon had recovered enough for travel and SHIELD and Fury had relented and released him into Thor's custody, the motley group of heroes gathered. There was little ceremony and less art to the prisoner transfer. Bruce shook Thor's hand with his right while his left slipped the device into a crevice in the god of thunder's leather armor.

He told himself not to glance at him. Not to make eye contact. Not to acknowledge his presence. Everyone would assume it was because of his shy mannerisms. His utter inability to gloat over the conquered in the wake of his own unmitigated violence. It was true, but there was another aspect to his total avoidance of the situation.

As Thor called down the Bifrost, he gave in to temptation. Shackled and muzzled but not for one minute truly bent. It was a facade he allowed the world to see. Bruce could dissect it easily. It was the opposite aspect of the same mask he wore. His eyes pierced Bruce to the spot. Along the edges of the silver muzzle he could see his cheeks blossom in a sadistic smile. And then both Asgardians were gone.

 

***

 

The damnedest thing... The transmitter showed it was still in New York. Bruce went back to the park as the afternoon cycled into evening. He scoured the pavement, looking for the device. Asgardian armor, no pockets, right? It had probably slipped free and was lying on the sidewalk, useless and forgotten.

But it wasn't anywhere. Insult to injury, when he got back to Stark Tower, the transmitter was moving erratically within Central Park. A squirrel or a dog or a child picked it up and was carrying it back and forth. A trademark sigh escaped his body. So much for the experiment. He would leave the Bifrost research to Dr Foster. It was for the best in the long run. He didn't need a thread of speculation tying him to those green eyes. To that mesmerizing smile. And Tony had plenty of other projects to productively distract him.

 

***

 

He would resign himself only late at night, alone. When his mind was no longer his own and in no danger of becoming the Other's. In dreams, the ideas festered. A smile. Sharp teeth. A sidelong glance. That haughty chin, raised, throat exposed. Daring him to violence. Daring him to touch. Ankles cradled in his monstrous hands. Calves. Thighs.

He hated waking up. The dreams fled like cockroaches in the sunshine. He swept them away, back under the bed, back into the dark corner where they belonged. At first, he only attacked them with his metaphorical broom. They were easy enough to shoo away. But as they grew, stronger, more insistent, they plagued him during the day too. Green eyes. Silver tongue. Moist lips. He couldn't allow this distraction. It was bad enough for the Other Guy to know. How could he not? But if Tony found out... the mortification would kill him. How weak of heart and mind he was. It was pathetic.

The dreams continued without mercy. He traded his broom for a baseball bat. And the bat for a flamethrower. He woke in a cold sweat more often than not. He ran. The cold early morning air on his face was a balm. The exercise was holy water. Dopamine of another type flowing through his bloodstream. Trading heroin for methadone. Another type of addiction. One that got him through the waking hours without trying to peel his own skin off in impotent longing.

Obsession wove its way into Doctor Banner's brain and it would not let go for all the world.

 

 

***

 


	2. Chapter 2

Symptoms of infatuation:  
1\. A misplaced sense of urgency.   
2\. Experiencing intense emotional highs and lows.  
3\. Exhibiting signs similar to chemical dependence.   
4\. Acceptance of high risk choices and reckless abandonment of personal mores.

 

 

***

 

He was so touch starved. Without realizing he was doing it, his hand would cross Tony's, reaching for the same instrument. An innocent brush of chest to back as he stretched around the billionaire for a notepad. Fingertips twining as a cup of tea was passed from one to the other. By the time he realized he was doing it, it was too late. The intensity of Tony's eyes caught him like a deer in the headlights. He saw the playboy grip one lip between his teeth, contemplating. Daring himself to push the boundaries. And before Bruce could stutter out an apology, there were hands on either side of his face and warm lips on his mouth.

He kissed back. He prayed Tony would forgive him. The shorter man transformed into another in his head, behind his closed eyes. For just a second. For just a second, the tension fled from his body and he gave in. For just a second, his blood thrummed with misplaced desire. He reveled in the fantasy, letting the army of cockroaches loose to devour his rotten brain.

And then the hands moved from his face to grip his shoulders. And the cold metal of the Arc Reactor pressed to his chest. And the illusion was shattered.

What he was truly doing was pushed into his eyeballs like red hot brands. He gently pushed Tony away, to arm's length.  
He shook his head without daring to look the other man in the eyes. The words 'no' and 'I'm sorry' crossed his lips and he disappeared from the room before he could see his friend's face shatter into a million pieces.

 

***

 

 

Potential outcomes:   
1\. Loss of ability to make rational decisions.   
2\. Emptiness.   
3\. Self-destructive patterns and decision making.  
4\. Regret at poor choices made while under the influence of all-consuming euphoria.   
  


 

 

***

 

But it was Tony, after all. And he bravely wrote it off as mixed signals and they went back to being 'science bros' even if it meant there were no more accidental touches. The emotional distance between them grew. It was apparent, even to Bruce.

The 'incident' as it was titled inside his own head, inadvertently fed the cockroaches at night. The feeling of lips on his, a sensation he'd long since forgotten. The surrender of being held in strong arms, pushed against an unyielding surface. The passion of desperation. The warmth of another's body.

Were Asgardians warm? Did they experience the insanity of infatuation? Did they long, and desire, and dream? Or did they just sit on their golden thrones and beckon with burning eyes, whisper curses with soft lips, pantomime embraces while brandishing razor sharp weapons?

 

***

 

Thor returned shortly after the London incident and Bruce had a new device ready and waiting. A heart of nickel isotope powering a wide-band RF transmitter, shielded by a mini Faraday cage, programmed to open when the outer surface was touched by un-gloved hands. A sure sign that it had successfully transited the Bifrost, arrived in Asgard, and had inevitably been handled by its bearer.

To his credit, he still went through with the experiment even as his hands trembled. Even when he knew it was pointless. He placed the oblong silver carapace, wrapped in a cloth, in Thor's hands. No subterfuge this time. Only a lie, poorly crafted. A gift for Odin. Please give it to him directly.

He managed all this even as Thor's words echoed in his ears in an unmerciful loop.

Loki is dead.

Dead.

 

***

 

He could barely bring himself to care about his latest failure. The transmitter still showed New York hours after Thor had left on the Bifrost to return to Asgard. Less one brother. Less one enemy. Less one threat.

He should have thought about it pragmatically. Such a tragic creature was doomed from the start, really. But all he could think about was how those incisive eyes, those wicked lips, that clever mind were lost forever to the universe. To him. To be denied from afar was one thing. It allowed the fevered, foolish spark of hope to smolder. But to be irrevocably prohibited by fate, by time?

Forever.

It defied thought. It defied explanation.

He rejected the truth outright, but he was only human. He couldn't hold out very long as the tidal wave of grief and regret washed over him. Carrying him far out into the sea of misery.

If only. If only he'd sought out Dr Foster. Been impulsive enough to go to Asgard. For science, but really for _him_. To try. To try! Why hadn't he tried? Even if it only meant rejection. Far better to try than be crushed under this festering miasma of 'what ifs'.

He sobbed like the broken child he once was. He cried until there was nothing left in him. And the sun rose over Manhattan. And slowly, so slowly as to be nigh imperceptible, Dr Banner reformed into a quantitative, pragmatic implement of justice.

 

***

 

 

Solution:   
Complete removal of the subject from the source of infatuation, e.g. the limerence object or person.

 

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

Dr Bruce Banner was not impulsive. Or prone to flights of fancy.

But he was curious. And not easily deterred by failure. No, it actually drove him further. Drove him on, to try again and again and again. Another transmitter, another encounter with Thor. Cards on the table time. The amenable demi-god readily agreed to take the transmitter with him and return for 'science'. In the middle of the New Mexico desert, Dr Foster attending, he called to Heimdahl, the portal opened, and he was whisked away.

The transmitter still showed New Mexico. Bruce barely refrained from smashing the laptop, grinding his teeth together to release his pent up frustration instead. He began to pack up his gear. Dr Foster gave him a slight smile of support. Before he could finish disentangling all his equipment, the blinding light returned and deposited Thor on the desert floor.

The transmitter was in his extended hand, still beeping benignly. Bruce's dismay rapidly turned to perplexion. The blonde demi-god was insistent. The device had traveled with him there and back, beeping all the while. Dr Foster's face fell as Dr Banner's lit up. Asgard was... Asgard was _here_? In the same space-time? Not another location. Not another constellation. Not another galaxy.

Another dimension. Another universe. Another reality.

The implications smothered him with theories, both in his mind and on his chalkboard and later, in practical experimentation. The weeks melted away in frantic activity. There was no time to obsess about perished infatuations. Of paths regrettably not trod. Of tremulous experiments untested.

Dr Foster worked right alongside him. Through worry that her own work was swiftly being usurped? Or maybe ego, wanting to ensure her legacy was intact? Or perhaps fear. The fear that her life, her love, was about to be stripped away through the cold unfeeling cruelty of the universe. Whatever the definition of that was now.

They visited Asgard. The scale was immense. A nebula orbited overhead, painting the sky in colors he didn't even have the capacity to name. They trekked to Vanaheim, briefly touched Niflheim, Svartalfheim. It was all the same. The transmitter moved perhaps a few hundred miles in any direction, but no further. The nine realms. Really nine realities. Nine alternatives for how the solar system could have formed. Nine 'what ifs' for planet Earth. No wonder their biology was so similar. Bipedal, bilateral symmetry, sexual reproduction, innate territoriality, aptitude for civilization, the art of war. Nine different sides of the same coin.

But what did this mean for Jane and Thor? He had to pull his eyes away when he saw the recognition settling coldly into her eyes. How could two creatures from opposite realities ever be anything other than doomed? He was glad, for once, that he'd never had to ask himself that. His object of limerence has been speared through the chest, bled out in a hostile wasteland. No need for tears of regret at all. No need to mourn that which never was and never could be.

But then, why did Odin's eyes twinkle so when watching his eldest son lose the love of his life?

 

 

***

 

 

Infatuation re-occurrence risks:  
1\. Return of the limerence object or person.   
2\. Ambiguous intentions from the subject of obsession.  
3\. Disregarding careful evaluation and rashly acting upon impulses.

 

 

***

 

  
Bruce did what he always did best. Probe. Dig. Hypothesize. Test.

The bond between father and son was too strained, even from his horribly biased perspective.  
Odin's actions were less regal than he had expected, more arbitrary, selfish. He would catch him when he assumed no one was looking and a sharpness would condense in his eye. Like he was telling the greatest joke ever and no one but him was laughing.

On the eve of their return, prolonged as far as possible not for Thor's sake but to vainly postpone his inevitable disappointment, Bruce confronted the all father. His guards were absent, just the two of them in the corridor after a long day of feasting and hollow jocularity. Bruce called him by his real name and he turned in recognition, instinct betraying himself before higher thought processes could kick in.

A disguise was nothing more than a parody, after all.

Discovered, Loki let the glamour wash away, transforming Odin's blue eye into green. How did you know, he questioned. But Bruce was at a loss for words. Skewered by the peerless face he thought he would never see again. He could only try and keep his heart beating. Loki's questions swiftly turned to accusations in the wake of Bruce's stunned silence. And from there to threats. But as his pulse began to race under the malicious weight of his gaze, Bruce spoke. Threatening him was useless. And no, that wasn't a threat in turn. There simply wasn't any point to it, and he tried to make Loki see that there was still a man under the skin of the beast he'd attempted to use as his pawn those recent years past.

He tried to make him see how Thor at least, would be relieved at Loki's return. But this only earned him derision. And yet, he hadn't been outright dismissed. Or hexed. Or stabbed. Dialog attempted and moderately succeeding, he was fortified enough to try to reveal the turmoil inside himself. It was his chance. His only chance. The one he thought was lost forever, now returned. The tiny flame of hope in his chest burned brightly and would not see reason.

So he tentatively poured his heart out. In careful, measured doses. Tried to make Loki see, in sparse few halting words, how the demi-god had burrowed under his skin. How he wished to know the other man, how they could potentially work together, science and magic, uncovering new knowledge about the world that had just been spun on his head. And Loki was intrigued. How could he not? A formidable enemy turning into an unlikely but powerful ally. Bruce saw the wicked gleam in his eyes, and he pushed back the worry to the farthest recesses where he had previously stored his fragile heart.

 

***

 

He was reckless, and he knew it. He reveled in it. He was making poor decisions, and he didn't care one bit. The return to Midgard was postponed. Multiple times per day over the next week, Loki in the guise of Odin stole away from the throne room to Bruce's guest chambers. The doctor laid out everything he'd discovered and hypothesized, one piece at a time. How the Bifrost wasn't a bridge but an unnatural rift. How each realm appeared to have spawned from one core scenario. How time itself may not be an intertwined continuum, but perhaps at different phases in each reality. Were the laws of physics different in each realm? He would have to test each of these theories diligently.

And Loki was eager to listen. It was the promise of hidden knowledge, a leg up on the competition. A potential exploit for him to wield. Bruce saw it in his eyes, the eager tremble of his hands. And he didn't care. He was drinking deep from the well of obsession. In the unfiltered presence of the object of his wild affections, he would say anything, do anything, to keep the other man near.  Green eyes locked on his.  The rest of the world forsaken in the blistering focus of his attention.

Did Loki know? If he did, he was certainly exploiting Bruce's desire for closeness, engagement. When his own eyes fogged over, buried in numbers and ideas, Loki would slide closer, brushing knees innocently together. It made Bruce's flesh goosepimple and his breath catch in his throat.

Or when he'd cohesively strung together two opposing theories, an adoring light would dance in Loki's eyes and he'd casually pluck his hands from furious writing, clasping fingers together, the electric feeling of skin on skin. Bruce developed a bad habit for stuttering at moments like these when he was completely overwhelmed.

He dreamed about him at night. Vivid, erotic dreams of smooth flesh, warm mouths, sliding tongues, gasping breaths and straining muscles. Were dreams more potent in Asgard? Or was it the proximity to the object of his desires? It really didn't matter. Bruce woke happily each day, eager to continue his research in the presence of his fixation. He was being paid handsomely in soft smiles, casual caresses, warm gazes heavy with admiration and respect.

And then the day came when his efforts bore fruit. An enhancement to the Bifrost. A method for reaching not just nine realities, but any reality at all. After all, there were an infinite number of probabilistic outcomes, and an infinite number of universes to match.

And when it was finished, and Bruce was riding high on his euphoria, he laid his cards on Loki's table. You amazing creature, he testified. You've woven your way into my mind, he confessed. And at the lack of any negative reaction from the beautiful demon, he cupped his chin gently and kissed him with the softness of morning fog. His heart was set to burst with anticipation. With the culmination of thousands of dreams, of reckless longing and depthless grief and solidifying redemption.

And Loki pulled away. Chuckling. What in Bor's name are you doing, he asked. Did Banner think that Loki could ever be interested in him? He was foolish, delirious. There was an impassible desert between the two of them. He was a god, after all. And Banner? He wouldn't give credence to his depraved mortal desires. He was nothing compared to Loki. Nothing.

But he'd been so good to deliver the weapon of Loki's own ascendance, his long overdue vengeance. Thank you for your gullibility. But no. Never. Not in a thousand years. A billion possibilities.

And Bruce couldn't even be angry enough to transform and stop him when he plucked the device from the table. A pit of despair and shame blossomed in his chest. How could he have been so foolish? Loki had used him then, and used him again. It was so obvious. But he was wrapped in a odious cloud of regret and self-hatred that stilled his hands.

Loki disappeared through the rift he tore open. And Bruce shut himself down deep inside. So deep that when Thor questioned Odin's disappearance, he couldn't form cohesive thought. He couldn't warn the team of the danger to come. Of the unavoidable horrors he had directly released.

Maybe... maybe someday. After Ultron had been vanquished, and Hela defeated, and Thanos subdued. After his wounded heart had learned to live, simply  _live_ , blackened with new callouses and scars.

 

Maybe then, he would tell them of the true depth of his betrayal.

 

Maybe.

  
  


 

***

***

 


End file.
